Lords of Gondor
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: Forty years before the War of the Rings Aragorn served Thengel of Rohan and Ecthelion of Gondor in disguise. Finished.
1. The White City

Minas Tirith glittered in the distance, bright and flawless as the model the Elves had created for them twenty years ago. "This is not a good idea." Barahir said quietly into his brother's ear as their horses jogged side by side at the head of a column of mounted Rohirrim.

"You should said so before." Aragorn murmured back.

"I did say so before!"

"So you did." his foster brother smiled mischievously. "Come, Amin, admit it you're as curious as I."

"True." Barahir conceeded. "But that doesn't make this escapade any less unwise."

Aragorn turned in the saddle to give his brother a chiding look. "Obeying the orders of our sworn liege lord is not an 'escapade'."

Barahir's return look made it very clear he wasn't buying that for a minute. "This was your idea, not Thengel's, don't deny it."

Aragorn shrugged, looked ahead. "I'm supposed to reunite the two Kingdoms." he reminded his brother. "I want to see what I'm up against."

Barahir sighed. "They'll ask questions."

"Which we need not answer." Aragorn said calmly.

--

They were met at the gate of the Encircling Wall by an officer of the Citadel who stared at the brothers and repeated their names with obvious disbelief: "Elfwine and Elfstan of the Mark?" His incredulity was excusable. The two captains were both taller and leaner than their men, with the dark hair and elegant bones of the Dunedain.

Aragorn merely inclined his head in assent leaving the officer with no choice but to swallow his curiosity and escort the troop of horsemen across the belt of walled farmland surrounding the city to the lodging prepared for them. This proved to be a long hall with adjacent stables, rendolant with the scent with newly cut wood and standing just outside the city gates .

"The Lord Ecthelion knows the Riders prefer not to be separated from their steeds, and we have not the stabling for so many inside the city." the officer apologized.

"This will do very well." Aragorn assured him.

"The Steward command you to wait on him in the Hall of the Kings as soon as your men are settled." the other continued.

"We will do so." Aragorn promised.

--

It was some two hours before he and Barahir entered the gates of Minas Tirith, on foot, and began the long climb up to the citadel. They were very familiar with the fashion of the city from the Elven toy their guardian, Elrond of Rivendell, had had made for them as children. But now, as they climbed, they saw differences between the model and the reality. No trees lined the wide avenues and many of the side streets and alleys were clogged with later, jury-built houses of wood and brick between the spacious white stone buildings. Yet even of these last many were ill-kept and some crumbling from neglect.

The streets were well peopled, the varying coloring and builds of the citizens indicating the blood of Westerness was here mingled with that of other Men. The contrast between the brothers' classic Dunedain features and their Rohirric trappings garnered them many a startled and curious look as they passed through the six lower circles. Mounting the tunnel stair to the seventh they found themselves in a paved courtyard.

Directly in front of them stood the white, withered husk of the dead Tree overhanging a fountain pool and ringed by four black cloaked guards with antique winged helmets and the device of the white tree and seven stars emblazoned on their steel cuirasses. This was the livery of the Kings of Old which their two descendants had, up until this moment, seen only in ancient paintings and statues. And very strange it was to them now to see it worn by living men under the sun. In fact the sight stopped them in their tracks and they turned to exchange looks in which wonder and awe were mingled. The Fountain Guards ignored their presence completely but the Citadel Guards flanking the stair gave them strange looks, as had the people in the streets below.

As they passed beneath the Tree Aragorn reached up to touch a withered leaf, and the brothers exchanged another wordless look. The White Tree of Gondor, seedling of Nimloth the King's Tree of Numenor, planted by Isildur in memory of his brother Anarion nearly three thousand years before. But Isildur's tree was dead, and his heirs must walk his kingdom disguised and unknown.

The tall doors of the Hall of the Kings stood open with the murmur of Men's voices echoing softly within. Entering the brothers were struck by a sudden coolness, almost a chill, striking inward from the soaring white marble walls. Tree thick columns of black marble upheld the distant ceiling and between them stood monumental crowned statues of the ancient Kings. Their features were conventionalized, more images of kingship than portraits of individual Men, yet Barahir could trace likenesses to many of his kin on those stone faces. And there were two that were the image of Aragorn, and one that could almost have been himself.

He gave his brother a sizzling look and received a cool one in return, then casting his eyes upward, consigned their fate to the protection of the One.

The brothers moved silent and unnoticed down the long Hall towards the dais. A massive, white marble throne stood at the top of a steep flight of steps. A giant gilded crown was suspended above it and an image of the white tree decorated the wall behind. The overall effect was heavy, overpowering. Barahir found himself wistfully remembered the sparkling delicacy of the Tree of Annuminas, wrought by Noldorin smiths of mithril and pearl, one graceful bough shading the simple silver chair of Elendil - empty and unused these thousand years.

A plain black chair had been set on the broad lowest step of the dais. The Man sitting in it held a white staff and looking at him Barahir was a little reassured, for both he and the youth standing behind him also bore a marked likeness to the royal statues looking stonily down upon the small knot of Men conferring quietly before the Steward's chair.

"Sirs?" Startled Barahir whipped around to see a chamberlain, marked by the black rod of his office, giving them the by now familiar stare. "May I have your names and business?"

"Elfwine and Elfstan," Aragorn answered quietly, "Captains of the Mark, commanding the two Eoreds sent by King Thengel."

Baffled, but conscious of his duty, the Chamberlain waved them forward as he announced their names and titles with a distinct intonation of disbelief.

The brothers bowed before the Steward of Gondor and straightened to meet a lucent, interested gaze. "Elfwine and Elfstan," Ecthelion mused, "those are Rohirric names. But surely you are not Rohirrim?"

"We have taken service with King Thengel," Aragorn answered calmly, "but we were not born in the Mark."

"In Gondor then?" "No, my lord, we are not Men of Gondor.

" Not exactly anyway, Barahir amended silently. The Steward turned his head to him, almost as if he'd heard the thought. Uh-oh. 'Have a care, Brother, here is one who can hear the unspoken!'

Ecthelion's mouth quirked in a faint smile. After a moment so did Aragorn's and Barahir found he was smiling too. The Stewards might be the enemies of Isildur's Heirs, or at the least their rivals, yet he didn't feel at all threatened by Ecthelion's perception. This Man would do them no harm, now or ever, of that Barahir was suddenly quite certain.

"Where is your home then?" the Steward asked.

"My lord," Aragorn said firmly yet courteously, "that is a question we will not answer. "Nor may we tell you our true names and parentage."

"Indeed." Ecthelion was clearly intrigued. "Will you say why?"

"Because, my lord," Aragorn answered, "we cannot tell the truth and do not wish to lie."

The young man behind the Steward's chair glared at him but Ecthelion seemed delighted by the response. "Well said! As King Thengel sees fit to accept your service under such conditions I need not scruple to do likewise. Be welcome to Minas Tirith, Elfwine and Elfstan, Captains of the Mark."


	2. The Steward's Heir and the Princess

"What impudence!" Denethor fumed as he climbed the long stair of the White Tower beside the Steward. "Don't trust them, Father, they must have some shameful reason for hiding their names and lineage!"

"I think not." Ecthelion answered calmly giving his son a quizzical, sidelong glance. "Clearly they are of our people."

"So are the Corsairs of Umbar." Denethor answered grimly.

"Not Corsairs." Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, said decisively from behind them."There's Elven blood there."

"Like yours?" Ecthelion asked over his shoulder.

"No, not like mine." Adrahil answered soberly. "My ancestress was a silvan Elf of Lorien and bequeathed to us the fair hair of her people. Dark hair and grey eyes are the mark of the High Elves of the West."

A sentry opened a door off a landing for them and they passed into a curving corridor on the third level of the Tower. "King Earnur wrote the women and children of the North Kingdom were given refuge by the Elves of Lindon." Ecthelion mused. "I wonder, could their blood have mingled over the long years?"

"If that were so why should any wish to hide it?" Denethor demanded irritably. "There is no shame in Dunedain blood, or Elven!"

"That I cannot answer, son. But of this much I am certain; whatever our friends are hiding it is not shame."

Denethor snorted, but before he could continue the argument a door opened and a golden haired little girl ran laughing to Adrahil's arms. "Papa!"

Ecthelion and his son both smiled down on her. "Why Lady Finduilas," said the Steward, "what brings you to Minas Tirith?"

"The shops of the third circle." her father answered. "Finduilas has a birthday coming up, she must choose her present."

"How old will you be, my Lady?" Denethor asked, "nine isn't it?"

The girl drew herself up to her full height and gave the Steward's heir a cold look. "Eleven!"

"I beg your pardon, Princess." he said quickly, appropriately chastened. "I'd lost track of the years."

"I'll forgive you if you'll be my escort, Lord Denethor." she shot a glance up at her father. "Papa won't let me go down to the shops alone and nobody here will go with me."

"I'm sure the Lord Denethor has other calls on his time -" Adrahil began.

"In fact I believe I have completed my duties for the day." Denethor interrupted with a glance at his father. "With your permission, sir?" Ecthelion nodded. His son started to take Finduilas' hand, caught himself mid-gesture and instead offered his arm. She rewarded his tact with a beaming smile, laying her small hand on his sleeve as primly as any court lady as they walked decorously off together.

"Now Finduilas," Denethor said quietly when they were back on the stair and out of hearing of their fathers, "you know as well as I that any of my mother's women would be glad to chaperone you within the city. So why, may I ask, do you specifically require my company?"

"I need your advice." she answered seriously. "I don't want any silly girls' fripperies for this birthday. I want a horse, and I'm not quite sure how to choose one."

"But surely you have a horse." Denethor protested mildly.

"I have a pony!" she said emphatically. "A fat, sleepy old pony. I want a real horse, one that can run and jump!"

He tilted his head quizzically. "Will your father approve?"

"He'll have no choice." she answered firmly. "He promised to buy me whatever I wanted." Finduilas smiled a little smugly. "He thinks it will be dresses or jewels like my sister Ivriniel. But he's given his word and I will hold him to it!"

Denethor fought back a smile. "I must remember not to make you any open ended promises, Princess."

--

"That went well didn't it?" Aragorn said placidly as they repassed the Fountain Guards in their royal livery.

"Ecthelion is suspicious." Barahir pointed out, but mildly.

"He is intrigued." Aragorn corrected. "We need have no fear of him."

"I don't." Barahir gave his brother a sidelong glance. "Ecthelion's heir is another matter."

"Yes." Aragorn agreed thoughtfully. "We must try to make a friend of him."

"Why?" Barahir demanded. "We won't be in Gondor long."

"Not this time." Aragorn answered somberly. "But we will be coming back someday - to stay."


	3. Of History and Horses

"You are a scholar, Captain Elfwine?"

Aragorn started, looking up from the huge old tome open on the table before him to see the Steward standing in the library door. "Would that I were, my lord," he answered, recovering himself. "I can't make head or tail of this."

Ecthelion came around the table for a closer look and laughed. "I'm not surprised. Master Tinfang owed his appointment to his lineage, not his scholarship. His grammar and spelling were, to say the least, original."

"His handwriting's none the best either." Aragorn agreed dryly.

"I sometimes think it's a mistake to keep our Annals in Quenya when there are so few today who know the tongue," Ecthelion observed casually, "but it is our tradition."

Aragorn, realizing he had given himself away, raised his eyes to meet the Steward's lucent, amused gaze. "And where did you learn your Quenya, Captain?"

"From my uncle, who is learned in many languages." he answered truthfully.

"Well, the better he taught you the more indecipherable you will find poor Tinfang." Ecthelion shoved the huge Annal aside, glanced over the other books on the table and drew one closer. "I'm sure you'll find Master Istimor easier going."

Aragorn turned the pages. "Yes, this is much better. He was Elven taught wasn't he? By one of the Teleri if I'm not mistaken."

"Exactly right. There were still Eldar living at Edhellonde in his day." Ecthelion smiled. "But I misdoubt you came in here to study the grammar and epigraphy of our annalists."

"I had thought to learn more of the history of Gondor, of which I know very little." Aragorn admitted.

"A large subject which might well take a lifetime to master." the Steward observed, settling himself on the edge of the table. "But then I have had a lifetime to study it. Perhaps, Captain, it would be simpler to ask me your questions instead of searching through all these books."

--

A little girl's voice, furious and fighting back tears, floated through the open stable doors. "You promised!"

A Man's voice, edged with exasperation, replied: "Be reasonable Finduilas, he is far to big for you."

A third voice, slightly out of breath put in: "She will grow, sir."

"Excuse me." Barahir said to the horse he was tending and received a forgiving whicker in return. He went out to see what was going on.

The Prince of Dol Amroth, remembered from the Steward's audience, had entered the stable yard with a pretty, golden haired little girl wearing a stormy expression. They were followed by the Steward's young heir struggling with one of the great Numenorean warhorses, a fine chestnut at least eighteen hands high, (1) determinedly trying to push past him to reach the girl.

"Look at him!" Adrahil snapped to the other Man. "she could never control him no matter how tall she grows."

"If I may, my lord." Barahir interrupted politely. "The young lady's horse senses she is distressed and is trying to reach her." adding to Finduilas. "Let him see you're all right, m'Lady."

The girl went to the horse and he calmed immediately, nuzzling her hair and blowing contentedly into her ear, making her giggle.

Denethor backed away shooting Adrahil a look of muted triumph. "You see? He's gentle as a kitten with her."

"No question but the beast's set his heart on the young lady." Barahir agreed. "Likely he'll pine away if you part them."

"And your daughter will never forgive you." Denethor added pointedly

Adrahil gave both young men a decidedly harried look. "A warhorse for a lady's palfrey!"

"If you grudge the expense, sir, I would be glad to -" Denethor began smoothly.

"That's not the point at all!" the Prince threw up his hands. "Oh, very well. I see I must yield!"

"Oh, thank you, Papa!" face glowing Finduilas threw herself into her father's arms then whirled round to kiss Denethor's cheek. "And thank you too!"

"Well see to your horse, daughter." the Prince told her. "If I may have a word with you my Lord Denethor?"

They left together and the Princess giggled. "Poor Denethor, now Papa's going to scold him for letting me pick such a big horse."

"Looks to me like it was the horse who did the choosing." Barahir observed nodding to the stallion towering over her. "They do that sometimes, as I know to my cost!"

"What do you mean?" Finduilas asked curiously as he held a stall door open for her.

"My first horse, or rather what was supposed to be my first horse, set his heart on my little sister instead." Barahir smiled reminiscently. "I was very annoyed - but there was nothing to be done about it. My uncle had to send for another horse for me."

"How old was she?" "Oh, about your age. Thirteen."

Finduilas glowed even brighter and Barahir hid a smile. He was still young enough to remember the surest way to please a child is to take her - or him - for older than she is.

--

Ecthelion helped Aragorn collect his notes glancing casually at the elegant Feanorean script. He smiled: "I see you were taught by a Noldo."

"Rather my Uncle was." Aragorn answered easily. "I thank you for your help, my lord."

"Not at all," the Steward answered sincerely. "I've found it most interesting and instructive."

"I am happy you should think so." They looked at each other from behind polite masks concealing their true minds.

Aragorn could see Ecthelion was pleased with himself - as if some theory had been confirmed. And yet for all that he was quite sure the Steward had come nowhere near the truth.

--

NOTES:

__

Think a somewhat more gracile clydesdale. 'Great Horses' are descended from those Men brought with them into Beleriand crossed with the Elven mounts of their allies and bred for size, big horses meant to carry a tall people. Very intelligent with a tendency to bond strongly to their riders.


	4. The Army Marches

Three thousand Men, a pitifully small force compared to the days of Gondor's glory, set out for the crossing at Osgiliath some two days later. The first day's march was much enlivened by gossip and speculation over the mysterious 'Captains of Rohan' who had fired the curiosity of the entire City. The young Men's looks alone proclaimed high birth, and by their manners and other signs it was clear they had enjoyed a nobleman's education. All of which made it quite certain they were not of Gondor. Two such could not have grown to manhood in any of the few surviving Ancient Houses without attracting notice. Nor would they have been allowed to sell their swords in Rohan.

The Elvish strain in their blood, obvious to those with the eye to see it, only added to the mystery. Where in Middle Earth had Men of Westerness mingled their blood with the Eldar? Not in Gondor, and certainly not in Umbar! Aragorn and Barahir were aware of the talk, and more than a little puzzled by it. For nowhere was there to be heard the slightest whisper or hint of a suspicion the truth. Strange as that seemed to them both.

"I am grateful but bewildered." Barahir told his brother softly as they walked together through the evening encampment in the ruins on the east bank of the Anduin to the Steward's lodging. "In fact I can't understand it at all. How often have the Eldar matched with Men? surely descent from the Kings of Old, who came of Luthien and Beren and Tuor and Idril Celebrindal would be their first thought?"

"I don't understand it either." Aragorn admitted, sotto voce. "Ecthelion thinks he knows something but I'd take oath he has no inkling of the truth."

"May the One continue to cloud their eyes!" Barahir murmured fervently just before they came in earshot of the sentries guarding Ecthelion's quarters.

The Steward was lodged in what had once been a large mansion. The roofless shell of hall and chamber had been covered with stretched canvas and rugs laid over the earth silting the floors. The hall was lit by torches and full of Men, the captains of the various companies, gathered round a trestle table spread with a large map of eastern Gondor. Aragorn and Barahir eased their way silently into the company.

"Seeing Ithilien abandoned by our people the Haradrim think to take it for themselves." Ecthelion was saying. "This we cannot allow for it would lay all of Lebennin and Minas Tirith herself open to their raiding." he put a finger to the map. "Our scouts have sighted small bands of raiders in South Ithilien but the main body of their host has yet to cross the Harnen. We will meet them at the fords of the Poros -"

"My Lord," Aragorn interrupted, "Forgive me, but why not challenge their advance at the Harnen?"

Denethor glared at him. "Because it would mean crossing the empty leagues of Harondor with its bands of brigands and Orcs!"

"I do not think brigands would care to assail so large a force as ours." said Barahir. "Though I grant careful watch would be needed at night against Orcs."

"The Poros is a wide river," Aragorn continued, "but shallow and slow moving, easily forded in many places not just at the crossing. We might find ourselves out flanked."

"Only too true." the Steward agreed grimly. "Such nearly happened to my grandfather."

"And we have not such numbers as Turin commanded." Prince Adrahil agreed worriedly, "Though we celebrate the Crossings as a great victory it was a costly one, more than we can afford to pay these days."

"The Harnen is a narrow river but deep and swift with many falls and rapids," Aragorn said earnestly, "the crossing too is narrow and dangerous, easily held by small numbers even against a great host."

"All this is true." the Steward said slowly. Or so our maps and records say." he raised his head to give Aragorn a piercing look. "You seem to know the ground well, Captain Elfwine."

He colored, momentarily at a loss. It was Barahir who answered, slightly defiantly: "We were in Near Harad some years ago and saw the Harnen with our own eyes."

Suspicion flared in Denethor's face but Ecthelion seemed merely interested. "A dangerous journey for Men of our kind." he observed mildly. Which tied both their tongues. He was right of course, it had been dangerous but less so than he might think given their companions. (1) Nor could they possibly explain why they had gone into a land belonging to the Enemy. Fortunately the Steward didn't pursue the subject. "Your suggestion has merit, Captain, but there are difficulties. I doubt our army can reach the Harnen before the Haradrim." "Horsemen could." said Barahir.

--

NOTES:

__

Aragorn and Barahir's companions were Gandalf and Glorfindel. Rangers don't limit their activities to Eriador, they also act as spies gathering intelligence for the White Council, (specifically Gandalf and Elrond) these missions sometimes take them very far afield, deep into Rhun and Harad.


	5. A Famous Victory

The ride of the the Rohirrim and the Knights of Dol Amroth from Osgilliath to the crossing of the Harnen - one hundred and thirty leagues in four days - would be long sung in the White City. As would the stand of the five hundred against a Haradic force seven times their size for nearly six days until the main body of the army joined them. And the diversionary attack, led by Elfwine and Elfstan, that finally panicked the enemy into flight.

Gondor had seen few such victories in living memory and the White City went mad with joy. The two captains of Rohan were the heroes of the hour and to Ecthelion's perceptive eye the diffidence with which they bore their honors owed less to a becoming modesty than genuine dismay, even apprehension, at having called so much attention to themselves, a reaction the Steward found interesting.

He had noted the mysterious captains' habitual self effacement which contrasted oddly with the decisive confidence they showed when they did choose to assert themselves, as at the War Council.

Adrahil reported, rather ruefully, the ease with which Elfwine had taken command of the expedition. "He was never disrespectful or even discourteous but he most certainly did presume!" the Prince smiled wryly. "Yet it did not seem like presumption at the time. Indeed following his advice - or rather obeying his orders! - seemed like the most natural thing in the world. It is only now, looking back, that I begin to wonder."

Ecthelion wondered too. Adrahil was a man of the pure Numenorean blood, save for that Elvish strain, strong of will, difficult to influence and impossible to dominate - or so he would have said. "And you felt no desire to resist?"

The Prince shook his head. "No." slowly. "It was almost as if in my heart I knew he had the right to command me."

"Perhaps he does." Ecthelion said thoughtfully.

--

"It is not mere jealousy!" Denethor declared, pacing restlessly, then flashed a brief wry smile at his confidant, "though I admit I am jealous! Yet it is not just that. My heart forebodes these two Men will bring some great disaster upon Gondor."

"I feel that too." Finduilas said unexpectedly and he halted in his tracks to stare at her. She sat on the curved bench fitted into the embrasure at the tip of the great rock pier overlooking the City, kicking her feet, which didn't quite reach the ground, brow creased in intense thought. "I don't think they're bad in themselves," she continued, "but something hangs over them - some terrible fate that they might bring down on Gondor without any intention of doing harm."

"I hadn't thought of that." Denethor said slowly and sat down next to the girl. "They may indeed be as innocent as my father believes - yet still a danger to us, though he seems not to see it."

"Nor does my father, I asked him." Finduilas looked up at him, squinting against the sun. "Maybe because whatever is going to happen won't happen in their time - but in ours."

"The warning is to us, because it is we who must deal with it." Denethor mused. "That is possible." he looked down at his companion with sudden compunction. "I should not be troubling you with such things."

"My mother says women must concern themselves with these things, especially noblewomen." Finduilas answered firmly. "How else can we support our husbands and sons with good counsel?"

"The Lady Lindorie is very wise." Denethor agreed solemnly. "But it seems less than courteous on your birthday."

"I had forebodings as well." she reminded him. "It makes me feel better to know I'm not the only one."

"Me too." Denethor admitted and smiled. "And I thank you, my Lady, for the support of your good counsel."

"You are very welcome." she answered.

--

The victory had not come without cost and among the fallen was Beren, husband of Ecthelion's eldest daughter, who was to be laid to rest among the other nobles of Gondor in a tomb on the Rath Dinen. Aragorn and Barahir were surprised to receive a hand written note from the Steward requesting their presence at the ceremony.

"It is not that I begrudge the time," Aragorn told his brother, "but to the best of my knowledge I never so much as exchanged a word with the Man, did you?"

Barahir shook his head and shrugged helplessly. "Perhaps as the heroes of the hour our presence is thought to confer honor upon the fallen." he suggested.

"That could be it I suppose." Aragorn said doubtfully. He gave the note a last look before folding it away. "Yet somehow I feel Ecthelion has some very different purpose in mind."


	6. Elendil's Heir

The Lord Beren was laid to rest in the House of the Stewards, a vast shadowy hall adorned with statues and inscriptions and filled with row upon row of dead, laid out on couches of stone. The mourners stood with bowed heads in a circle around Beren's bier, lit by banks of flickering candles with the scent of embalmer's spices strong in their nostrils: The Steward and his family, wife and daughters draped in long veils. Representatives from the other Ancient Houses there to do honor to the deceased and his kin. And Aragorn and Barahir in their Rohirric trappings.

Listening to the familiar Quenya words intoned by The Lord Steward, Barahir wondered where their Southern Kin had gotten this custom of embalming the dead and laying them in massive, ornate family tombs. Long ago, in Numenor, interment in rock cut tombs had been the common practice. In the North the Exiles had adopted the Runedain (1) custom of barrow burial and held to it as long as the Kingdom lasted. Now Rangers were laid to rest in unmarked graves, often where they fell, and memorialized with engraved stones or statues set up in small, private hallows.

The brief ceremony came to an end and the mourners reformed their procession to follow Ecthelion, his widowed daughter on his arm, out onto the Silent Street. The Steward kissed Emeldir gravely on the brow and gave her over to the care of her brother, then as the rest of the mourners headed up the Rath Dinen towards the winding path back to the circles of the living, he beckoned to the two captains.

"As you are interested in the history of Gondor, Captain Elfwine, there is something here I would like you to see."

Aragorn and Barahir exchanged furtive glances but obediently followed the Steward to the largest and most ornate of the great tombs, its facade adorned with the stars and tree and crowned statues of kings.

Ecthelion produced a key to unlock the great golden doors and pushed them open. Unlike the House of the Stewards the Tomb of the Kings was lit by high thin windows, inset with panes of colored glass. The dim, mysterious light showed rows of still figures, richly robed and bejeweled, laid out on stone biers. But directly in front of the door was a throne, very like that in the Hall of the Kings, with the body of an aged man propped up on it. He was grey bearded and frail, weighed down by a kingly circlet and heavy golden mantle. Clawlike hands rested upon a gleaming, wing crested crown of mithril adorned with gold and jewels of adamant.

Barahir started and felt Aragorn's hand tighten on his arm. Swallowing with a dry throat he said silently to his brother: 'I do not think I approve of this manner of treating the dead.' Aragorn replied with wordless agreement, as shocked as Barahir.

"The King Earnur, last king but one of Gondor." said Ecthelion, aloud. "That is the crown of Anarion he holds, until the king shall come again."

'I might consider letting him keep it even then.' was Aragorn's dry thought.

Barahir winced in agreement. The prospect of wresting Gondor's crown from those fleshless hands was not appealing.

The Steward led them around the throne to a broad table directly behind it upon which lay a long casket of jetty galvorn overlaid by gleaming chasings of mithril and gold and set with the seven and one stars, the white tree, and the cipher of Elendil.

Aragorn and Barahir didn't have to be told what it contained, they knew very well from the lore and traditions of their House. What they did not know was how the body of Elendil, laid to rest by his son in a barrow at the heart of the South Kingdom, came to be in this place.

Ecthelion looked at the two younger Men and saw that they were shaken - though only an eye as discerning as his could have read the signs. "You are right," he told them quietly, "this is the body of Elendil brought from his grave on Amon Anwar by Cirion when Calenardhon was ceeded to the Rohirrim." The Steward moved to the other side of the table drawing the captains' eye to a body laid out beside Elendil's casket.

A Man like enough to them to be near kin, with high forehead and straight nose and slightly hollowed cheeks, robed in the black and silver of the Kings with a star of adamant bound upon his brow. "And this," Ecthelion said quietly, sadly, "is the last of Elendil's line. The last heir of the Kings of Men in Middle Earth."

Two pairs of eyes rose from the dead face to the Steward's, Elfwine's grey as water under clouded skies, Elfstan's dark blue, both wide with shock.

"He first appeared in Gondor the days of the Morgul Wars and fought the Nazgul under Denethor and Boromir." Ecthelion continued. "But when those wars were ended he left us. Only to return long years later to stand beside Cirion at the field of Celebrant, and to fall there. He came to us out of the North, we never knew his true name. Perhaps you do?"

"He was Arminas," Elfwine said huskily after a long moment, "Minastar in the High Tongue." (2)

"Thank you." said Ecthelion. "It is good to finally be able to give him the honor of his royal name." he looked at them steadily. "And I thought it might comfort your people to know he lies in due honor beside his fathers."

--

"So Arminas was right, Boromir did guess his secret." Barahir said quietly as two rather shaken young princes made their way down the long circles of the city to their lodging outside its gates. Cloaked and hooded against recognition by folk in the street.

"And doubtless passed on his suspicions to his son, Cirion." Aragorn agreed pensively. "This explains a great deal. If the Gondorim think the line of the Kings is extinct, it's no wonder they failed to recognize us as Isildurioni."

"But then who or what do they take us for?" his brother demanded. "Descendants of the Northern Dunedain and Elves of Lindon I would guess." Aragorn smiled wryly. "A reasonable enough conclusion given the little they know of the fate of our people in the North. And from our point of view, a very fortunate mistake indeed."

--

NOTES:

1. Runedain 'Men of the East' is the name given to those Men of Eriador descended, like the Dunedain of Numenor, from the Three Houses of the Fathers of Men.

2. Arminas was the elder son of Arahad I, the seventh Chieftain of the Dunedain. So the Gondorim were right in identifying him as the Heir of Elendil. But very wrong in assuming he was the last. Arminas had a younger brother who succeeded their father and carried on the Line of Isildur.


	7. Thorongil

Among the less pleasant duties of the Stewards was visiting the wounded in the Houses of Healing. Today however it was a fairly cheerful task for those who remained were well on their way to recovery and looking forward eagerly to release from the healer's toils.

As Ecthelion approached the chamber occupied by two Rohirric sword thains he heard them speaking in their own tongue to some other visitor, but it was not until he'd reached the half open door that his ear caught Captain Elfwine's habitually low pitched voice answering. The Steward knew enough of the language to gather the Men were eager to escape the healers and go home, and that their visitor was assuring them they soon would.

Ecthelion withdrew to a bench in the corridor and waited for Elfwine to emerge, speaking only after he had closed the door gently behind him. "You are eager to leave us, Captain?"

Elfwine went absolutely still as he always did when startled, a mannerism he shared with his brother, then turned calmly to face the Steward. "My Men are naturally anxious to see their homes again."

"But Rohan is not your home." Ecthelion observed, rising from his bench. "Nor is Minas Tirith," Elfwine returned composedly, "and I am not accustomed to cities of stone or great concourses of Men."

"Do you think you could become accustomed to them?" the Steward asked, falling into step with the younger Man.

"No doubt with time." he answered confidently.

"I am glad to hear it," said Ecthelion, "for I would ask you to enter the service of Gondor."

Once again Elfwine was caught in that sudden stillness - like a wild thing startled by a hunter. "I thank you, my Lord," he said after a moment, "but I have already given my oath to the King of Rohan."

"I have written to Thengel, and he has agreed to release you on condition your brother returns to him. He will not spare you both he says, not even for the love between Gondor and Rohan."

A ghost of a smile curved the captain's lips for an instant. "That sounds like my Lord Thengel." then soberly. "My Lord, I must consider this, and consult with my brother."

"I understand. I await your answer, Captain Elfwine."

--

"I can't believe you're seriously considering accepting!" Barahir fairly sputtered.

"Why not?" Aragorn demanded, pacing their chamber in restless excitement. "It's a perfect opportunity to really get to know my Southern Kingdom, and discover what kind of opposition I can expect."

"What about our mission in Rohan?" Barahir demanded.

Aragorn flashed him a smile. "You know perfectly well only one is truly required for that." he said: "They sent us both that you might keep an eye on me."

"And the One knows you need it!" his brother retorted. "Estel, this is madness and far too dangerous."

"No, brother, it is perfectly safe." Aragorn countered. "The Gondorim believe the Line of the Kings is extinct, that the last Heir of Isildur died nearly five hundred years ago. Nor will I give them any cause to think otherwise - for the time being."

"How much time?" Barahir demanded. "Estel, already we've been away a full four years. Ecthelion will certainly insist on holding you several more at the least. What of the North? You are our Chieftain, you have responsibilities at home."

"I have not forgotten." his brother answered, sobered. "But I have a very effective Regent in our Grandmother and Lieutenant in our Uncle Armegil. They managed very well during the years of my childhood and no doubt will do so again." he continued pleadingly. "Amin, this could be the first step to restoring the fortunes of our people. If I am to have any chance at all of reuniting the Dunedain I must know the South as well as I know the North. I must not come to them as an alien and an outsider that was why Arvedui was refused."

"He was refused because the Gondorim would cling to their stolen independence."(1) Barahir snapped then ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I see your will is set on this, Estel, but at least promise me you will not put forward your claim without a few of our own people to guard your back!"

"The Gondorim too are our people." Aragorn reminded him. "But I give you my word I will do nothing drastic without consulting with Grandmother and our Uncles. Will that do?"

"If needs must." Barahir sighed.

His brother's triumphant smile was edged with relief. "Then I will tell Ecthelion I accept his offer."

--

"Sir," Denethor said through clenched teeth, "I firmly believe it would be a grave mistake to accept this nameless Man from nowhere into the service of Gondor. I have many times spoken of my distrust of both him and his brother -"

"And I have warned you against allowing your personal feelings to sway your judgment, my son." the Steward answered coolly from behind his writing table, his attention apparently fixed on the papers before him.

"It is the foresight of our people which makes me distrust them." Denethor snapped back, shaking with barely contained fury. "I tell you this Elfwine carries some great peril with him, better he take it back to Rohan - or better still to whatever obscure kennel he came from!"

Ecthelion raised a bleak face to his son. "Such gibes do you no credit, Denethor. You must learn to control your temper, son, and your prejudices. My judgment tells me in Elfwine Gondor has gained a great captain and a strong sword for her defense, things she sorely needs."

'The great captain and strong sword I cannot be.' Denethor told himself bitterly.

His father read the thought and his expression softened. "I too have little skill in the arts of war, my son." he reminded him gently. "It is not necessary for a Steward to be a great warrior and captain, only that he be able to recognize and make use of those who are. This Man will be useful to Gondor, remember that and let it conquer your dislike of him."

"Yes, father." Denethor said tightly, unconvinced but defeated. Ecthelion studied his heir's rebellious face and sighed inwardly. Before he could say more there came a quiet rap on the door and his secretary poked his head in. "Captain Elfwine, my Lord."

"Admit him." the Steward ordered, rising and casting a warning look at his son.

Denethor lowered his eyes sulkily but lifted them as the other Man entered, they widened involuntarily.

Elfwine had put aside his barbaric Rohirric trappings and was clad now in the simple elegance of grey leather and fine spun wool, hems picked out with delicate traceries of silver thread. A star of glittering adamant fastened his cloak at the shoulder. A veritable lord of the Kings of Men he looked, grave and stately with the clear Elven light gleaming in his eyes.

He made his bow first to the Steward and then to the Steward's Heir. Ecthelion returned it but Denethor was frozen in place by his intense loathing and a kind of fear. 'This Man will destroy me, destroy the Gondor I love.' he knew it with a certainty beyond all reason. 'I must get out of here!' "Father!" he jerked a bow in the Steward's general direction and brushed by Elfwine as if he didn't exist on his way to the door.

Ecthelion frowned after him, then turned to the captain with a sigh. "I apologize for my son, Elfwine, he sometimes allows his temper to lead him into rudeness." The Captain nodded acceptance of the excuse but his brow puckered in a worried frown. "Denethor dislikes being gainsaid. He will get over it." Ecthelion dismissed his fractious heir from his thoughts and smiled at Gondor's new captain. "Elfwine is scarcely a fitting name for you now, my friend, as you are no longer a Rohirrim even by adoption. But in the Elvish tongue it would be Elendil and no lesser Man may bear that name."

"No indeed!" the captain agreed emphatically. After a moment's hesitation offered: "I have been called Thorion." (2)

"The Eagle's Son." Ecthelion mused. Yes, there was something eagle-like about the younger Man's regal bearing and piercing eye. His gaze fell on the glittering star, emblem of the Northern Dunedain. "Make it rather Thorongil, Eagle of the Star."

"As you wish, my Lord." said Thorongil.

--

NOTES:

1. Meneldil, son of Anarion, falsly claimed Isildur had ceeded the realm of Gondor to him and his heirs before his death at the Gladden Fields. By right he was no more than the High King's vice-regent in the South.

2. Aragorn was so called by the Great Eagles, in reference to his father whose name meant Royal Eagle and was regarded by them almost as one of their own.


	8. Twenty Years After

They had had this debate before - many times.

"The Corsairs of Umbar are a threat to Dol Amroth and Pelagir, and if those should fall to Minas Tirith herself." Aragorn argued as he always did. "If they were to ally themselves with the Enemy in the East we would be undone."

And Denethor replied - as always. "And if your attack should fail? We would lose ships and men we can ill afford - and Umbar would be free to raid our shores at will."

"The attack will not fail." Aragorn said quietly.

"Can you command success, Thorongil?" Denethor sneered. "The greatest captain may be foiled by a small mischance."

Aragorn said nothing. There was nothing safe to say. Every man sitting at the council table knew Thorongil, Captain of the Citadel Guard, had never lost a battle. Nor Denethor the Steward's Heir won one. Aragron looked at the man sitting at the Steward's right hand, enough like him to be the brother he'd never had, and regretted yet again his failure to make a friend of Denethor.

"Thorongil." he looked at the Steward, the Lord Ecthelion, in the great chair at the head of the table, the white staff of his office lying before him. "I agree Umbar is a danger to us," the old man said, "but my son's arguments are well founded. And even if your attack succeeds it might well cost us more than we can afford. Would not the Haradrim revenge any such blow against their ally?"

"It is Belfalas who would feel the brunt of any such revenge," said Adrahil, the Prince, stoutly from Ecthelion's left hand. "Yet we are willing to adventure it."

Aragorn gave him a quick smile of gratitude before replying to the Steward. "The Haradrim are allies to Umbar but not friends. They will not seek to avenge them."

"Who can read the mind of a Southron?" Denethor argued. "They are the enemies of Gondor and will seize eagerly on any excuse to do us hurt."

Aragorn shook his head. "They fear Gondor more than that, my Lord."

Especially since the Harnen Fords." said Hirluin, from his place behind his Captain's chair.

Aragorn resisted an urge to put a hand over his eyes as Denethor reddened. Harnen Fords had been his first great victory on behalf of Gondor. It was that battle that had moved the Steward to take him into service - to Denethor's abiding regret.

"Enough!" Ecthelion commanded, "there will be no attack."

Aragorn bowed his head, "As my Lord, wishes."

"This Council is ended. Stay you a moment, Thorongil." Aragorn resumed his seat, averting his eyes from the look of anger and hurt, on Denethor's face as he filed out with the others. Hirluin alone remained, silent behind his captain, and the young page at the Steward's elbow.

Ecthelion sighed and fixed a stern eye on Aragorn. "It is not like you to defy me, Thorongil."

"My Lord -!"

The Steward silenced his protest with an upraised hand. "Three times now have you proposed this attack on Umbar and three times have I refused it my sanction. Yet I doubt not you will raise the matter again as soon as you may. Is this not defiance?"

Aragorn looked down at his hands folded on the table, Arwen's ring on the left, the seal of the Citadel on the right, then up at the Steward. "My Lord, I am your councilor and as such owe you my judgment as well as my obedience. I fear for Gondor is Umbar is left unhumbled."

Ecthelion looked at him long and hard then nodded. "I see that you do. and you are not a man given to fear."

Aragorn restrained an ironic smile. Little did Ecthelion know!

"You are young, Thorongil, and young men are inclined to be reckless. But I am old and the safety of Gondor is my charge. I must be prudent."

"Sometimes, my Lord, risking a lesser danger to avert a greater is prudence." Aragorn braced for anger but the old Steward laughed.

"Your wit is as sharp as your sword, my friend. I will not debate you. There will be no attack on Umbar and I forbid you to raise the matter again,"

Aragorn bowed his head in submission, but it took an effort. "I am your servant, my Lord." he said, reminding himself as much as Ecthelion.

"I know not who or what you may truly be, Thorongil," the Steward said, levering himself out of his chair with the help of a short, blackwood staff and his page. "But of this much I am certain, you are no man's servant."

Aragorn had risen with him. "I swore you an oath, my Lord, and I will keep it."

"That I doubt not." the old Man replied gently as his page opened the door for him.

Aragorn let out a sigh as the door closed behind his master. "What do we do now?" Hirluin asked.

"We have been given our orders, we obey them."

"But the Steward is wrong!" "Is he?"

Aragorn swung around to face his lieutenant. "Perhaps I am the one who is wrong."

"You are never wrong." Hirluin said simply. How do you answer a statement like that? especially when spoken with the innocent fervor of youthful hero worship.

"Oh but I have been, Hirluin, many times about many things." He answered ruefully, but not this. He couldn't possibly leave Gondor with the threat of Umbar still hanging over it, but he wouldn't be able to stay much longer. Gondor was only a part of his responsibilities, his people in the North needed him as well. His mind worried at the problem as he made his way through the passages of the White Tower to his quarters. Hirluin faithful at his heels.

There was a way. He, Aragorn, was what he was; Heir of Isildur and rightwise born King of Gondor. The power of the Kings of Old to bind and unbind, to heal or destroy was his for the taking. Ecthelion's fathers of old had sworn oaths to the Kings of the Kings of Men. Those bonds were still there, ready to his hand. Aragorn could, if he chose, bend the old Steward to his will. But he would not. He thrust the temptation from him, as he had many times before.

'I will not force an allegiance that is not given freely, I will not break men's minds to my will. To do so would make me no different from Sauron!'

He wished Hirluin a good night at the threshold and entered his room alone going directly to the window to look eastward at the red glow of Mount Doom above the jagged teeth of the Mountains of Shadow. Leaning on the sill he remembered Ecthelion's words 'You are not a man given to fear.' and this time let himself smile at the irony. He was afraid of a great many things, most of all of his own power - and his own weakness.


	9. Boromir

"Boromir! Boromir, you bad boy, come back here! Somebody stop him!"

Aragorn turned from the parapet to see a small, golden haired bundle of energy hurtling along the Citadel wall towards him, bent and scooped it up as it tried to dart past.

Bright blue eyes glared at him for a moment from beneath thunderous brows, then the small face relaxed into a puckish grin, accepting defeat, but only for the moment.

Aragorn grinned back. Suddenly the child's face changed into a Man's, strong and handsome but deathly pale, fair hair dark with sweat and plastered to his head, blue eyes full of pain both physical and spiritual. Aragorn felt a desperate, powerful grip on his shoulder and the chill of future grief and guilt upon his soul. He blinked and was back in the present, the child's face laughing into his. But the memory remained. Something terrible was going to happen to Boromir when he came to manhood and he, Aragorn, was going to be there to see it.

The Lady Finduilas arrived, breathless, dropped her skirts and reached for her son. "Bad boy! Mustn't run away from Mama like that."

Boromir just went on grinning, cheerfully unrepentant as Aragorn handed the boy over, carefully burying the foreseeing in the deep places of his mind. The Lady Finduilas had no little insight and he would not poison her joy in her small son with grim previsions. "You have quite a handful there, m'Lady."

"Don't I know it! Thank you, Thorongil." she slanted a sidelong look at him. "You know something of children I see. Are you perhaps a father yourself?"

He shook his head. "Not yet, m'Lady." 'Nor ever I fear.' "But I am a most experienced uncle. My elder sister's boys were about your Boromir's age the last time I saw them." he blinked, suddenly reminded of the passage of the years. "They must be Men grown by now!"

Her blue gaze sharpened. "You have served Gondor for some twenty years, Thorongil, and not visited your home once in all that time."

"The distance is very great." he answered carefully.

"Yet you have travelled far into both Rhun and Harad in Gondor's service." she observed. "And I am sure the Lord Steward would willingly grant you leave for a journey home, however long it might take."

"The Lord Ecthelion has ever been a kind and considerate master to me." Aragorn replied.

Of course she ignored the evasion. "But to ask such leave you must also say where you would go and you will never give us such a clue to your origins." she said, eyes narrowing.

He made the only answer possible: "Lady, from the very beginning I have made it plain there are questions I cannot answer."

"Cannot or will not?" Boromir wriggled restlessly in her arms, bored by all this talk over his head. Aragorn unpinned the adamant star he wore on his shoulder and offered it to the child as a diversion. But his mother would not be so lightly distracted. "Will not, I think." she said softly, blue eyes boring into his. "There is no Man living who has the right to command you."

She blinked, frowned. "I don't know why I said that." then looked at him challengingly. "Yet it is true isn't it?"

Reluctantly he nodded. "I am my own Master, Lady, yet I am also a servant and not free to follow my will."

"You do not speak of Ecthelion." she said flatly.

"I do not." he admitted and continued carefully. "Lady, please believe that whatever I am, I am not your enemy or your Lord's."

"You will be his death." she said flatly, then took pity on the stricken look in his eyes. "Not by your own hand, or even by your will. But you will bring him to death, my Lord Thorongil. You know I speak true."

"No!" he took a deep breath. "Men are the masters of their fates, Lady. It is true certain actions of mine, should I undertake them, could well lead to Denethor's death. But I am resolved against that course." He met her eyes straight, the strange light that ever lurked in his gleaming brightly. "You, and your Lord, and Gondor are safe from me, my Lady. You have my word on it."

She sighed. "I know you mean well, Thorongil, and that Denethor had treated you badly. But it is hard for him to see what should be his given to a stranger." The Captain made a gesture of protest but she swept on, passionately, not giving him a chance to speak. "My husband is a great Man but no one appreciates him as they should, not even his own father! I am the only one who really understands him."

"The Lord Denethor is fortunate to have such a devoted advocate in his wife." Aragorn said gently.

"He needs me." she agreed softly. "I saw as much when I still a little girl in short skirts and braids. I knew I was the wife for him, if only he'd wait for me." she smiled. "And he did!"

"As I recall it took some little prodding before he saw the girl had become a Woman." Aragorn answered with a glint of remembered amusement.

Finduilas laughed out loud. "More than a little! Men can be such fools, even the wisest of them."

"All too true." Aragorn agreed ruefully.

"Finduilas?"

They turned and looked up to see Denethor frowning down at them from the battlements of a nearby tower. "What are you doing here?" there was surprise, even disapproval in his voice and eyes but no suspicion. Denethor's follies did not include doubting his wife, even when he found her in conversation with a Man he regarded as his rival and enemy.

"Papa!" Boromir crowed delightedly stretching out his arms towards his father. "Papa, papa, papa!"

"Yes, dear, it's Papa, now be quiet a minute and let Mama talk." Finduilas continued to her husband: "The next Captain-General of Gondor took a fancy to inspect his future command over his mother's objections. Captain Thorongil was good enough to catch him for me.

"The little devil." his father said, proud and delighted.

"As strong willed as his father." Finduilas agreed.

"And persistent," Aragorn put in, "mark my word, m'Lady, he'll try again the very next chance he gets. And again, and again until he gets what he wants."

"That is like his mother." Denethor smiled, the presence of his adored wife and son mellowing him enough to be pleasant even to Thorongil.

"I know." Aragorn agreed ruefully.


	10. Return of the King

Torches in the hands of the silent crowd filled the great square behind Minas Tirith's gates with flickering shadows. Ecthelion waited with his lady at his side, tightly gripping his arm. A Guardsman rode out of the darkness beyond the open gate followed by a score or so of his fellows, a horse-litter in their midst.

As it came to a stop before them the Lady Miriel gave a low moan and released her husband's arm to throw herself on her knees beside the litter, tearing aside the curtains. "Denethor! Denethor!"

Finduilas, white as her gown but calm, put her arms around her mother-in-law murmuring comfort. "He's alive, Mama, the healers will help him - you'll see. Everything will be all right -"

The Guard Captain climbed stiffly off his horse, approached the Steward and saluted. Ecthelion looked at him. "What happened?"

"An arrow, my Lord, fired from cover just outside the old city wall. Only the Lord Denethor was hit. We searched the brakes but found no one." the Captain swallowed. "I drew the arrow myself and set it carefully aside, but when I looked for it after binding up the wound it was gone."

"Vanished." Ecthelion said flatly.

The Man looked miserable. "There was much confusion, my Lord. It could have been knocked off the stool and trampled underfoot..." his voice trailed off, unconvinced and unconvincing.

The Steward forced himself to smile reassuringly. "You are not to blame, Captain, some dangers cannot be guarded against. See to your Men." Only then did Ecthelion allow himself to go to the litter and look at his son.

Denethor moved restlessly as in a fever, muttering scraps of words, but his face was pale and when Ecthelion reached down to touch as cold as ice. Not a fever then, but something worse. Miriel had their son's hand between both of hers and pressed to her cheek as she begged him to open his eyes and speak to her.

Ecthelion tried to force her convulsive grip apart. "Miriel, darling, you must let go - just for a moment, so the healers can see to him. Please, my heart -"

"Mother." Emeldir's voice cut across his pleas. "Mother, you must be calm. Father needs you to be strong."

That did it. His wife let go and allowed him to draw her to her feet. "I'm sorry," she whispered tightly, "I'm making a spectacle of myself."

"A mother has a right to weep for her son's wounds," Ecthelion whispered back, "but we must try put on brave faces or the people will think it is worse than it is."

She smiled bleakly. "How could it possibly be worse?"

--

The healers could offer little comfort. "My Lord, my Ladies, we will do all we can." the Master of the Houses told them. "We have much experience in treating poisoned wounds but if it was a Morgul arrow -"

"There is nothing you can do." Ecthelion finished quietly.

"It wasn't a Morgul arrow, it wasn't!" Finduilas said fiercely.

"My little sister is right." Emeldir agreed firmly. "We must not assume the worst. A poisoned arrow from some lurking Orc is far more likely."

"We must not lose hope." her father agreed, an anxious eye on his wife.

Miriel tried to smile. "My son has a powerful will, He shall not be easily overcome!"

"And that counts for a very great deal in these cases, my Lady." the Master Healer assured her earnestly.

--

They took turns watching over Denethor; Miriel and Emeldir by day, Ecthelion and Finduilas by night when Denethor was more active, tossing in the bed and raving in broken sentences.

"There, there, my darling." Finduilas crooned, tucking her husband back into his bed. As always he quieted at the sound of her voice and touch of her hands. She settled back into her chair and risked a look at her father-in-law. "You must forgive him, Papa, he would never say such things in his right mind."

Ecthelion was staring at his son, face frozen, unreadable. After a moment he stirred and looked back at her. "Spoken or not he has felt so for some time." he shook his head helplessly. "I knew he was jealous of Thorongil but such venom..."

"Not jealous - afraid!" Finduilas corrected sharply. "Thorongil is a danger to Gondor and to Denethor himself. We have both seen it."

Ecthelion shook his head again, emphatically. "No! That I will never believe. He has been more than loyal -"

"I didn't say he means us harm." Finduilas interrupted. "I know he doesn't. He is a good Man, he loves Gondor - and you too, Papa, but something hangs over him, something that could destroy us all, and Thorongil knows it, I've seen it in his eyes."

Ecthelion sighed. Finduilas was not entirely wrong, he too had recognized how Thorongil's charismatic presence could become a threat to his son. But the fault lay in Denethor, not some vague doom hanging over the Captain. "Thorongil may well be leaving us soon." he said aloud.

His daughter-in-law looked pleased. "That would be best for everybody, including Thorongil himself."

The repetition of the hated name had pierced Denethor's stupor. He jerked upright in bed, "Thorongil!" Finduilas started out of her chair to calm him as the door to the chamber opened admitting a wave of cool air that twisted the flame of candles and brazier into strange shapes.

Thorongil stood in the doorway, his dark cloak billowing around him, looking for one fantastic moment like a wraith who'd been conjured by his name. Ecthelion and Finduilas both stared transfixed as the Captain moved swiftly past them to the bed, firmly forcing Denethor back onto his pillows. "I see it is as bad as they said. What happened, my Lord?"

"An arrow shot from cover outside the walls of Osgiliath." Ecthelion replied, recovering himself. "We fear it is a Morgul wound."

Thorongil shook his head. "It looks much like it I grant you, but I have a remedy that will serve I think.(1) I will need a bowl and some hot water, my Lady."

The Captain took a handful of long, glossy leaves from a pouch at his belt, bruised them then arranged them in the wide bowl Finduilas brought and poured boiling water from the kettle on the fire over them. A fresh, pungent scent filled the room.

Ecthelion felt suddenly calmer, comforted by Thorongil's sure presence, and a touch of color came into Finduilas' white face. The Captain took the steaming bowl to the bedside, unwound the bandages and bathed the wound high on Denethor's arm. The patient sighed deeply and his eyes no longer moved restlessly under closed lids. As wife and father watched hopefully Thorongil laid one strong, square hand upon his brow and said softly but with powerful authority: "Denethor son of Ecthelion, hear my voice, return to the Light!" He took Denthor's hand and put it into his wife's. "Call him, my Lady, you above all will draw him back."

"Denethor? Denethor, my darling, time to wake up dear." her voice broke. "I need you, my love. Please, please wake up."

The heavy lids fluttered and opened. "Finduilas?" his voice was a thin thread of sound, barely audible.

She gave a cry of joy, and the tears she'd been restraining for three endless days finally flowed free. "Yes, darling, I'm here! I'm here!"

Ecthelion felt Thorongil brush past him to the door, turned and followed him into the dim, cool passage. "Thank you."

"I am glad I could be of help, my Lord." the Captain glanced through the open door where Finduilas now wept in her husband's arms. "Very glad.

--

Denethor woke to sunlight streaming through the casement of his chamber with Thorongil sitting silent and watchful on the window seat. For a moment the two Men just stared at each other.

Denethor tried to convince himself the luminous figure with eyes as bright as the star burning upon its brow that had commanded him back from the shadows was nothing more than a fever dream - and failed. It had been real enough. And he knew now exactly who and what 'Thorongil' really was. "So who are you?" he heard his own voice say harshly, "some bastard byblow of an exiled princeling whiling away his days among the Elves?"

"I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, Elendil's son of Gondor." the Captain answered, his calm voice holding a note of reproof just as Ecthelion's so often did.

Denethor felt himself flush with the usual miserable mix of humiliation and anger. "Isildur's heir you may be - but you have no claim on Gondor!"

"I have no intention of making any claim on Gondor." the Man he had known as Thorongil rose, features set in grim lines, eyes bleak. "I admit I had some thought of doing so when first I came but I long ago realized it would be folly. Gondor is the bulwark of the West, she must not be weakened by divisions and controversies."

For a moment Denethor could not answer, struggling against a treacherous undertow of ancient loyalties. Long ago his fathers had sworn allegiance to this Man's ancestors. Served and followed them faithfully for a hundred generations. Part of him felt the call of those oaths and longed to submit to the power hidden within the Man before him. He armored himself with pride and old hate and pushed the temptation away. "We are in agreement then."

A faint smile touched the King's face. "For once. I ask only that you keep my secret, Lord Denethor. Should Sauron discover an Heir of Isildur still lives he would not rest until I was destroyed."

"And he had taken his vengeance on any who had harbored you." Denethor said grimly. "Never fear, my Lord. I will keep silent - for Gondor's sake."

The door opened unexpectedly, making both Men start. Boromir darted through to throw himself with a glad cry upon his father. Finduilas followed, face darkening as she picked up the tension between the two Men.

"Surely you two are not quarreling again so soon!"

"On the contrary, my Lady, the Lord Denethor and I find ourselves in perfect agreement." Thorongil bowed to her, to Denethor, and left closing the door gently behind him. Finduilas gave the door a dark frown, then turned it on her husband. "What did you say to him?"

--

"So this is the answer to all the mysteries."

Aragorn glanced up from his maps to see Finduilas standing in the doorway. A look of annoyance passed over his face and then resignation. "Of course, I should have realized Denethor's promise of silence would not extend to you."

She came into his small workroom, closing the door behind her, her blue eyes fastened piercingly upon him. "Isildur's heir. You could bring destruction upon us all should the Enemy learn you exist."

"I know." Aragorn agreed. "But, as I told you, I have decided against that course."

Looking at him with less hatred and more perception the Woman saw the hidden pain her husband had missed. "Do you want so much to be a King?" she wondered. Such deep ambition seemed out of character for the Thorongil she knew.

"I am a King, my Lady, acknowledged or not." he answered quietly. "And as King I must put the welfare of the realm before my private desires." then the pain broke through, tightening his mouth and darkening his eyes. "But if I spare Gondor a new kinstrife, I also condemn my people in the North to fade away and be forgotten. Arnor will never rise again." (2)

Finduilas wanted to reach out to comfort him somehow, but had the wisdom to recognize this a was grief nothing could mend. "I'm sorry." she whispered.

He shook his head, smiling wearily. "It's not your doing, my Lady, or your Lord's. Even if Denethor and Ecthelion were willing to accept me, my decision would be the same. Gondor must stand, or all the West falls."

--

NOTES:

1. Notice how Aragorn carefully avoids a direct lie.

2. This is true but of course there's also the matter of Arwen...


End file.
